Loveless
by counted
Summary: A little piece of Rufus history, beginning with a play and ending with a joke.
1. Default Chapter

            When I was a child, 'Loveless' was a play.  A play for small theaters, I should say.  I suppose it was popular as far as unpopular plays go, but until I saw it I didn't move in theatrical circles, so I wouldn't know.  For that matter, I didn't exactly move in any circles.  I stayed in my room, went to mandatory parties hosted by my father, and went on equally mandatory "outings" with my many and varied bodyguards.  Up until my fifteenth birthday, that's all they were.  Understand that there is a sizeable difference between having a bodyguard, who could have come from anywhere with or without any qualifications, and having a Turk – let alone a _team of Turks.  _

            But before I had Turks, I had bodyguards, and my favorite thing to do with them was get them fired.  My second favorite thing to do was make fun of them.  Although collectively they were a grim, robotic bunch, the occasional light-hearted one would arrive.  Of course, I would try to annoy him and get him fired just like the rest, but my days were admittedly more fun when my bodyguard had a sense of humor.  

            If you're wondering how the hell a friendly bodyguard has anything to do with a popular unpopular play, well, I'm coming to that.

            Not long before my fifteenth birthday, one week after my old bodyguard had been fired, a new one came.  He was an older man with graying hair who smoked too much (as many of my protectors did), and his name was Dempsey.

            One usual Sunday, Dempsey made a decision that must have seemed harmless at the time: he decided to tell me that my derisive impressions of him were actually very good, and had I considered becoming an actor?

            The thought that I could do something other than eventually take over the company had never occurred to me, and I was very impressionable, so I demanded that Dempsey take me to see real actors on stage.  We went to a fairly small theater not two blocks from headquarters to see a rendition of a play called "The Shoemaker", I believe.  I tried very hard to pay attention, but before long my eyes began to wander, and they wandered over the walls, which were made of old brick and plastered with posters from other plays.  As I took in the titles and pictures on each, I evaluated them: "The Song-Lady of the South", with a picture of a country girl singing, joyous expression and all.  Boring.  "Forgive and Forget", with a young man putting his arms around an elderly couple, presumably his parents.  Stupid.

            My eyes connected to the next picture like magnets.  It was this: another girl looking sadly at a gold locket on a chain.  The title, of course, was _Loveless._

            Initially, the only reason I was interested was the girl – she had dark hair, and she was pale and slim.  With that sad look on her face, she seemed much more real than the blonde on the other poster.  Besides, I wanted all the attention that the audience was now giving to the cast I had barely noticed.

            I stayed seated when most stood to clap, staring at that girl.  Dempsey was telling me to get up, we had to go, but I just sort of silently protested and pointed to the poster.

            "We can see it tomorrow," he said, misunderstanding.  I settled for that.

            The next day I was terribly excited; I put on one of my favorite suits and slicked my hair back – I didn't go through this much trouble for most of my father's dinner parties.

            The theater was quite empty, Dempsey explained that the people who usually came to this theater were from "the city below" or poorer sections of the plate, and rags-to-riches stories were much more interesting to them than love stories.  At that time, I had never been to the slums, and I didn't know how bad there were; I really only knew the word.  

            I was fully attentive throughout the entire play, enthralled by the depth of the characters and the talent of the actors.  Certainly, some of them suffered from a lack of any talent at all: for example, the main female character (Laila) was a teacher, and she had a student who attempted to help her through her through her problems with the main male character (Clay).  The student's name was Sam.  I couldn't help but notice that, despite the fact that Laila's actress was exquisite and Clay's was at least decent, the boy who played Sam was terrible.  I picked Clay's performance apart too, but he was a fair actor.  Far superior to Sam, anyway.  Clay was the part I set my sights on, you see, so I had to make him atrocious for myself.  That night, still dazzled by the play, I set out to steal away his job, and his Laila – onstage, that is.

            I might've been a little self-centered.

            Anyway, I got out of my rooms easily enough (it was never very hard, since every guard I had slept in a little room off the entrance of my quarters until they were replaced by Turks; they didn't bother to actually guard me), and made my way to the street level with caution.  I had long since learned by experience that very few security guards enjoyed their jobs, and most of them slept during the night shift.  I would have done the same; loss of a low-paying ShinRa job was hardly a loss at all.  As the President's son, let me assure you that in some cases, no job at all would be preferable.

            Anyway – I left the headquarters around midnight and wandered down to Main Street.  I'd done this before, but it never seemed to get less threatening - especially to a boy, as you can imagine, of thin physique, dressed in an expensive suit with blond hair combed neatly back.

            Nevertheless, I made my way to the theater, drifting in and out of the streetlights as I drifted in and out of confidence: was it worse to face the whores (yes, I would have used that word then) and leering teenagers in the light, or the things unseen that lurked in the dark?  Thankfully, it wasn't farther than a block.

            I shoved open the backdoor (it is possibly worth mentioning that the front door looked exactly like the backdoor, that is, heavy and in need of paint) and peered inside.  The lights were on in this particular stairwell, and three people – I estimated them to be about sixteen – were sitting and talking.  One of them had a cigarette, but on the whole they didn't look too dangerous.

            "Need somethin'?" slurred the only girl in the trio.

            "Uh…I-I want to, um, be in the theater," I stammered.

            The two boys glanced at each other; I got the impression that this was not the way one normally started an acting career.  The girl also looked a little bewildered.  "Well," she said slowly, "You gotta talk to Miss Poret, she does all the important stuff."  She pointed down the stairs.

            I nodded and mumbled a thank you, unsure of whether or not they'd heard me.  I didn't really care, anyway.

            Downstairs was a busy place, full of costume racks and boxes of props and most of all actors, digging through aforementioned racks and boxes, while laughing and joking with each other.  Miss Poret's door, adorned with a piece of yellow paper bearing her name, swung heavily open.

            From a cluttered desk in the middle of a cluttered room, Miss Poret glanced up.  She wore a lot of makeup; I remember because I finally decided that she wore so much that it must have made her look worse.  Nevertheless, she seemed a cheerful type.  "Something I can do for you?" she asked brightly, folding her hands.  Her fingernails were too long and too perfect to be real, and they gleamed red.

            "My name is Rufus, and I, uh," I said.  Before I could continue, she prompted:

            "Want to join the junior theater?  We've got three-"

            "I want to be an actor!" I blurted.  And then, in a more subdued voice, "in 'Loveless'."  I hate chatty people, no matter how cheery they are.

            Her stare went from blank and comical to hard and knowledgeable.  I think she was trying to give me one of those piercing stares, though, and it was failing badly.  Her eyes were much too ordinary to begin with.

            "Loveless, huh?" she said.  She fiddled with a coffee mug containing pencils and paperclips absently.  "This could be a lucky break for me… I'm not exactly thrilled about the recent performances."  She paused and chewed a fake fingernail.  "Some of our actors…aren't so good, these days.  I want to bring in fresh audiences, but nobody wants to see a bad actor ruin a good play, you know?"  I nodded.  Whatever.  "And it is a good play."  She was silent for a minute, and then she asked, "Who did you have in mind, for a part?"

            "Clay!"  This, again, in a burst of energy, but it was followed by no apologetic tone.  I could give a damn good piercing stare, and I was at that moment fixing her with it.  Her lips (perfectly outlined in a shade of pink that just clashed with the shade that filled them in) tightened into a hard line, and without looking she grabbed a sheet of paper and tossed it at me.  I didn't catch it, though not for lack of trying.

            "Read Sam," she said as I stooped to pick up the paper, "with _feeling.  Sympathy for Laila."_

            I was suspicious of her intentions (after all, I was expecting to read Clay's lines), but I read anyway.  "Miss Laila," I said, turning to the empty space next to me, "you need to think this over."  The paper said _Sam drums his fingers on the desk and sighs; I pretended to tap my fingers on a desk, then leaned forward on it and sighed, burying my face in my hand.  "It's just not as simple as you think, Miss-"_

            "Stop."

            I stood straight, grinning inside and looking anxiously out.  Miss Poret was smiling in a way that only a nice woman with too much makeup can.

            "You're on," she said.

            I protested, "But you didn't hear me do Clay-"

            "I know."  She bent over to reach deep into her desk, produced a thick script and tossed _that at me.  It hit me in the chest and fell on the floor.  "You're Sam.  Just as a trial, of course, or an understudy.  We already have a Sam."  She sort of mumbled the last part, like 'we already have one but he's not worthy of my appreciation'.  _

            After a moment of joint happiness and disappointment, I stooped for the second time and mumbled "thank you", also for the second time.  Miss Poret beamed at me.

            She winked.  "No problem, Sam."

            I was about to turn and leave, and suddenly remembered to ask: "when are rehearsals?"

            "Five to eight on Tuesdays and Thursdays, showtime's at eight every Sunday night."

            Of course, I couldn't leave the headquarters any earlier than ten on _any night, so now I had a problem.  "I-I can't make that," I admitted.  "Not before ten…er, thirty at night."  I think I was blushing._

            "Why not?  You're here, aren't you?  It's two in the morning on a Sunday night, um, Monday morning.  Can't be school's the reason."

            Ah, I understood it then.  All of these younger people in the play were from the slums; most didn't go to school at all.

            "Well, no, that's not the reason."  I hesitated.  "You see, I live at ShinRa and-"

            "Look, we can't just change schedules for ya, dear, I don't care if you're the _President of ShinRa."  She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose.  _

            "I'm his son," I offered weakly.

            Apparently she did care, because she suddenly looked up with great interest, and appraised my suit.  I took out a wad of money from my pocket and started to thumb through it idly.  "I believe you," she said at length.

            "Oh, thank you-"

            "But – ShinRa is going to pay me and my actors for the inconvenience, y'got it?" she said sternly.  "Or no act.  I'm gonna need three thousand gil to make up for this."

            "Yes, absolutely!" I lied cheerfully.  Three thousand gil was steep for a change in schedule; I wondered where she'd spend all that money and whether her downtrodden actors would ever see it.  "Thanks again.  So…when?"

            She tilted her head and squinted one eye, clicking her fingernails on the arm of her chair.  "Mmmm… make it eleven Tuesdays and Thursdays, showtimes eleven on Saturdays.  Saturdays now, got that?  It wasn't that popular, but maybe if we got some better actors" – she nodded at me – "and we put it on a popular night it'll generate a little more.  But bring me money, y'hear?" she said the last part sharply, and I nodded.  Lying was so natural to me it was like getting up in the morning.

            I ran home, not to avoid the late night people, but because I didn't know exactly when things woke up at the HQ.  I'd never stayed out later than two, which is to say that it was like I'd never left by 2:05.  It was 2:33 when I reached the maintenance door, and it would take me about fifteen minutes total to get back into bed.

            Of course, I made it, and I fell asleep promptly.

            Tuesday was one giant daydream, with brief interruptions by my tutor, who got so angry with my silence that he left with one lesson untaught.  Like I cared.  I could've done anything in the world as President ShinRa's illustrious son, even then I knew it, and I was prepared to take full advantage.  At any rate, evening came and went, and I left HQ like I had Sunday to go to my first rehearsal.  The streets were just as dangerous, but that night I was confident.  I was an actor.


	2. Chapter 2

I was an actor.

            Well, not yet.  I had hoped Miss Poret would withhold the fact that I had caused the rescheduling, but by the glares I received upon entering the theater, I decided that Miss Poret was not to be trusted.

            "Okay, let's run through the whole show, with the new Sam understudy instead," she said, clapping to gain attention.  "That's Part One, Scene One – Clay and Laila to the right and left.  Let's go."  Miss Poret thumped offstage in her four-inch heels and hurried to her seat in the front row.  I was in the front row, too, but far to the side.  To my annoyance it was Clay's side.

            I leaned forward conspicuously as Laila said her lines.  She was quite pretty, although I suppose I was too young and unrefined to do anything but guess.  She had straight dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders and a slim figure, but I could also tell immediately that she was a good bit older than myself, maybe mid-twenties.  About as old as Clay, which I also noticed then, and which made me just a little bit jealous.  Speaking of Clay, he was relatively tall, built like an athlete.  I relaxed in the knowledge that I had more money.  

            As the play rolled merrily along, a younger, bouncy blonde entered; I recognized her as the girl in the poster for 'The Song-lady of the South'.  With a glance at my script I saw that her character was Mary, Laila's best friend.  Her lines were perky and witty; she was the comic relief of the more or less tragic play.

            I only like tragedies, on a side note.  They're the only ones that ever made any sense to me.

            So I watched Laila throughout the first scene, dimly listening for telltale sounds of the next scene in the background.  That was Sam's first scene.

            As you can probably imagine, I felt like an idiot, getting onstage with my script instead of the schoolbooks that should have been my props.  I sat down at a battered old desk, spreading the script out in front of me.

            "Rufus, did you read the script?" Miss Poret called.  I nodded impatiently.  In case you were wondering, it was true.  More or less.

            "Great.  Enter Laila."  I looked up and saw the kid who normally played Sam, glowering at me from the third row.  I flashed him a grin.  Or a smirk – it was probably more of a smirk.  I never was much good at real smiling.

            "Hey, Sam," cooed Laila, pulling up a wooden chair next to me.  Ah, finally close enough to see her eyes.  Hazel.  "Why the long face?"

            "No reason."  I forced my face to be sincere.

            "Project!" Miss Poret whispered.

            "Sorry," I said.

            "No, just keep going!" she hissed.

            "Sor – I mean, um –" Laila cleared her throat; I turned to her guiltily.

            "You need help with your schoolwork?"  She gestured to my script, sugar-sweet smile on her sugar-sweet face.  I was sure she was mocking me.

            "No," I shot back hotly.

            "Rufus," Miss Poret warned.

            "The script says 'yes', honey," Laila sneered.  Miss Poret didn't hear her.

            "What the hell did I do to you?" I whispered back.

            "Rufus, _say your __lines."  I glared at Miss Poret._

            "This kid sucks," one teenager in the back called.  "How come he got Cal's part?  Cal was way better."  There was a chorus of agreement.  Cal was smiling at me, and Laila looked pleased with this turn of events.  At that point, I belatedly noticed that the two of them looked very much alike, and wondered if they were related.

            Miss Poret approached the stage, fingernails clicking noisily on the black surface.  She looked nervous.  "Rufus," she began, hesitated, and then continued, "it was wrong of me to appoint this part to you.  Not because you're a bad actor," she rushed, "but because we already have an experienced actor to play the part and I think this change of schedule is trying everyone's nerves."  She paused, as if she were trying to think of more reasons.  "Please remember that this was kind of a 'test run'.  I'm sorry."

            And so I shuffled offstage, blushing, and left in the worst way possible: without dignity.  I wanted to tell her to just fuck off, I wasn't planning on paying her anyway, but I didn't.  My steps toward the door were first accompanied by snickers, and then jeers from a few kids in the back, along with the sound of Miss Poret trying to quiet everyone down.

            Now, anyone in Midgar could tell you that Rufus ShinRa doesn't get upset or cry when something's happened at his expense.  This is half true.  The only time I ever cried in my life was at my mother's funeral, but I do get upset.

            And then vengeful.

            And then I scheme.

            "You there!" (A useful phrase I picked up from General Sephiroth, in case you were wondering.)  I called over a tall young man in a leather jacket.  His face was plastered with a wide grin and his friends were laughing; I think they found my suit and I funny.

            "What's up, little man?" he said casually, clapping a large, dirty hand on my shoulder.  

            I calmly produced a handful of bills from my pocket, and tried very hard to imagine that this was just business, with one of my father's clients; or for that matter, one of their children: spoiled, wealthy children just like me, with whom I made frequent bets.  If I thought of it that way, he wasn't so threatening.  "I want you to burn down that building over there –" I pointed to the theater as discreetly as possible – "tonight."

            The young man leaned in.  His breath smelt of alcohol and cigarettes, and something I couldn't place at the time.  He took the money just as calmly as I had taken it out of my jacket, which was slightly unexpected.  "Well," he said, "now I got all this money, why don't I just take it and _not_?"  He snickered.  "Maybe I got a girlfriend works in that place."

            As if I didn't know how to play this game.  "You're going to do it," I replied, "because if you do and I go home knowing that, there's an extra ten thousand gil in it for you.  All you have to do – as long as I see it burn, and I give the okay – is go to the front desk at ShinRa Headquarters – got that? – tell the secretary, her name is Dawn, what you did, and then ask for your _payment.  Okay?"  He'd do me a favor and then turn himself in for it.  Haha._

            He was confident, but a little confused, understandably.  He nodded after a moment and jogged back to his friends.  I had to smile; for a person like that, the need for that ten thousand would override doubt and reason.  It was about 11:50, and I was feeling dangerous.  I sat on a bench at a bus stop across the street and watched, daring anyone to come near me.

            Someone did.

            "Excuse me," said a female voice to my left, "but is it okay if I sit here?"

            I nodded automatically before I even looked to see who it was.

            She was about twenty, pretty even in the limited fluorescent ambience of the streetlights, with golden curls loosely gathered with a red checked ribbon.  I looked back at the theater.  She was the girl from 'The Song-Lady of the South'; Mary in 'Loveless'.  I grinned to myself, casting a sidelong glance at her; she was prettier than I'd initially given her credit for.  And then I remembered that I had just paid a man to burn down the theater and she was out here with me, watching.  Suddenly I was less happy to have her sitting there.  "W-what are you doing here?" I stammered.  This could be bad…

            "I don't have another scene for a little while," she said, "and I felt bad for you.  I'm really, really sorry about how everyone was back there."

            "No problem," I mumbled, eyes on the theater.

            She leaned back on the bench and looked up at the sky.  It was a cloudy night, like always.  Clouds were omnipresent over Midgar.  Might've been smog.  "I've been here at this theater for a long time," she sighed wistfully, "and it was rough for me when I first came, too.  My parents had just died in an accident, and I had nowhere to go, and I was only nine, and the theater kind of raised me, you know?"  She smiled.  "They're like my family."

            My eyes were wide open.  Sympathy wasn't the problem; the problem was guilt, which was threatening to crush my head and then laugh at my corpse for being so stupid.

            "I love 'em, though."  She gave me a serious look which I tried very, very hard to ignore.  On account of the fact that I was trying, I wasn't doing much actual ignoring.

            "You know," she said, "if you went back and tried again, I bet they'd like you too."

            I saw the young man in the shadows; he dropped an empty red container on the sidewalk and bolted.  All I could think was "here we go".

            A line of fire snaked around the corners of the building, effectively sealing all the doors.  All of the windows had bars on the outside.  He'd done his job well.

            "Oh god!"  The girl next to me leapt up, hands flying to her mouth.  "Oh god I have to get them out!"

            As she started to run across the street, I entertained the possibility that the fire would just die out; after all the building was made mostly of metal and the doors were metal, too; there wasn't that much wood...  No such luck.  One of the young man's friends dashed up to the theater with a board draped in a flaming piece of cloth, jumped, and threw it up onto the roof.

            "Stop!" the girl shouted belatedly, standing in the middle of the street.  Most cars honked and swerved.  One honked and slowed down, and the driver swerved, but he was too slow and the girl glanced off the side of the car, spinning as she fell.  She didn't get back up.

            "Shit!" I heard myself say, dashing into the street and praying that the cars would swerve for me.  I'm not quite sure why I didn't just leave her there.  I know it sounds ridiculously cold, but I was actually afraid of her; I had never done anything quite this destructive, maybe she would testify against me – I didn't know then exactly how far the protective power of my father's position extended.  Nevertheless, I grabbed the girl's arm and tried to pull her to the sidewalk, but she was almost too heavy for me to drag or carry.  Like I said, I was very thin, and not tall, either.

            A fire truck came within a minute, followed by two military cars.  By this time I was still dragging the girl, and the cars kept swerving.  A ShinRa guard stepped out of one car and hurried over to me.  "Saved her, didja?" he said, gathering the girl over his shoulder and taking my hand.  He looked at me, grinned, started toward his car, and snapped back to me.

            "R-Rufus ShinRa?"  He gulped.  "Damn!  Come with me."  He walked a lot faster now.  An ambulance and another fire truck pulled up behind the two military cars, and he put her in the ambulance.  I tried to get in after her.  "Nuh-uh."  The guard grabbed my arm.  You're comin' with me."

            I shook him off.  "I'm going to the hospital, or you're fired!" I shouted, and slammed the doors.  I could hear another ambulance coming.  Turning, I saw that the paramedic was staring at me.  "Well?" I snapped.  "Fix her!"  The man thumped on the glass between us and the driver, and the ambulance lurched into action.

            At the hospital, she was rushed out of sight, and I moved to follow, but a doctor with a clipboard slowed me down.  "What's her name?" he asked, pen poised.

            "I don't know."

            "Date of birth?"

            "You think I would know that and not know her name?"  I stared at him.  "You can bill ShinRa, Inc."

            The doctor scrutinized my face.  "You wouldn't happen to be Rufus-"

            "That's right," I interrupted, and hurried to catch up with the people who had taken her.

            I didn't find her that night.  I couldn't stay in the hospital, either, so I went home.  But the next day I was awakened by Dempsey, late, at ten.

            "Come on," he said, taking my arm, "your tutor's not coming today; your father wants you to be at a speech he's making-"

            "I can't!"  I jumped out of bed, still wearing my suit.

            "Why not?" he asked, as I smoothed my jacket and raked a hand through my hair.  I walked slowly to the door, leaned on the handle, sighed and shook my head as if about to explain – and threw open the door and ran.

            It was a common sight in those days – young Rufus ShinRa running through the halls of ShinRa, Inc. in a slept-in suit, presumably escaping his bodyguard.  No one even tried to stop me; it wouldn't do them any good and it would've cut into their schedules.

            I ran all the way to the hospital and asked for the only survivor of the fire last night (because I was sure it was true), and the receptionist directed me to room 203.  Of course, she was there.  She was also conscious, having miraculously only suffered bruises and a twisted ankle.  But I can't say she was feeling particularly optimistic.

            "Hi, I – oh, wait right here!" I interrupted myself, like she was going to go anywhere.  I hadn't brought her any flowers.  Bringing flowers to a girl in the hospital was just… the thing to do.  "I'll be right back," I assured, and dashed to the gift shop, which luckily wasn't hard to find.

            "That'll be ten gil", said a cheerful woman who almost immediately reminded me of Miss Poret.  I guiltily pushed forward what little money I had left and grabbed my bouquet (I had picked it just because it was on display next to the register), and hurried back to the girl's room.

            "Sorry," I said breathlessly, handing her the flowers.  I had stupidly forgotten to buy a vase.

            She held them for a moment, running her fingertips over the petals like she'd never seen flowers before.  "Thanks," she finally said, in a voice almost too soft to hear.  She set them on the table next to her bed.

            "How're you feeling?" I said.  I realized at the time that it was a lame thing to say, but I had nothing else.

            She ignored the question, anyway.  "The paramedic said you tried to get me out of the street."  She looked up at me.  Her eyes weren't anything special, I guess.  Plain liquid blue.

            "I did," I began, stepping closer to the bedside.  On a second thought, I knelt, hoping she wouldn't mind if I had my hands on the edge of her blanket.  "What's your name?" I asked.

            "Nell."

            "Do you have a place to stay, Nell?"  In honesty, I couldn't believe I was saying this.  Then again, I'd already burned down a theater, footed the hospital bill of a girl I didn't know, bribed a guy with about eleven thousand gil, and killed at least thirty people.  Better plow ahead.

            Nell lowered her eyes.  "No.  I guess I have to think of that, first – I mean before the hospital bills.  And I'll have to get a job."  She heaved a sigh.  "Funny how everything you have can just disappear in a night, huh?"

            Hm.  Well, maybe it had worked out to my benefit, I thought.  "I'm taking care of the expenses," I said importantly, straightening my tie (which actually needed straightening for once; it was quite crooked).  "And you are quite welcome to stay with me."

            "You are?  I am?"  Nell looked perplexed, which was understandable.  Who was a fourteen-year-old to go around offering such things?

            Why, Rufus ShinRa, of course.  

            "You're Rufus ShinRa?" she gasped after I had introduced myself.

            I nodded distractedly.  Well, I wasn't _too distracted; I was happy the name meant something to her.  "Yes, yes.  Now – are you interested?"_

            "I guess so," she said slowly, probably shocked at her luck.

            "Excellent.  I'll make arrangements immediately."  I went to find her doctor and a phone – the doctor said that she would in fact be able to go home, and Dempsey wearily agreed to pick me up.  Armed with a bottle of painkillers for Nell and a self-satisfied smirk I didn't bother to contain, I sat in the waiting room.  When Dempsey arrived, he sternly told me that I shouldn't do this again, ever.  Unlike regular security guards at ShinRa, bodyguards received a very impressive salary – room and board included, although vacation was at the option of the employer.  Unlike regular security guards, bodyguards had something to lose.

            With the help of one nurse and a crutch, Nell ended up in the back of my modest black car (silver rims, all leather interior – white – deeply tinted windows), and we were on our way back to the corporation.


End file.
